A Mirror To Match
by blueandblack
Summary: Quinn thinks she's the cheesiest girl in Ohio. She's almost right. Written for a meme at my LJ where people can ask for any pairing or character they want provided I'm familiar with it.


Quinn Fabray is sure she is the cheesiest girl in Ohio – head cheerleader, president of the celibacy club, church on Sundays and an ass that won't quit, perfect boyfriend – perfectly dumb jock and his perfectly no-strings BFF – she likes bake sales and being told she's a barbie doll, she's got ambition – just enough - she's got teeth as white as her sneakers and _straight, straight, straight._

Quinn Fabray is sure she is the cheesiest girl in Ohio until the day she meets Rachel Berry.

That is, until the day she pauses longer than it takes to hurl a slushie her way, long enough to take in the curved collar and the too-thick knee-socks, the sleek, shiny hair that she probably brushes one hundred times every night.

(Quinn does that – her brush has a silver handle and a mirror to match.)

That is, until the day she pauses long enough to catch the name – Rachel _Berry._

Her last name is a _fruit._ A small, adorable fruit. The kind of fruit that's printed on little girls' dresses – and oh _come on,_ Quinn thinks.

It's not Rachel Banana, or Rachel Grapefruit.

It's Rachel _Berry._

She's talking at lightening speed about Barbra Streisand, the glass ceiling and whether you can break it with your voice, kosher meat in the cafeteria and _Someday, when I'm famous and therefore enormously influential…_

Quinn hurls the slushie. She tucks her cross under her uniform and sashays down the hall.

* * *

She hears Rachel sing for the first time a week later – in the girls' bathroom – she thinks no one's there.

(Quinn _thinks_ she thinks no one's there.)

She hears Rachel sing and she cries herself to sleep that night because it's so tempting – because it was beautiful – because the sign-up sheet for Glee club went up that morning too.

* * *

When she joins, she's an enemy – a spy – and three days a week Rachel Berry sings to her while she hides.

Santana's tongue is acid. Quinn takes it a step too far trying to stay ahead of the pack.

She curses – _What the fuck is that sweater even about? It looks like it's made out of kittens _– and of course that's not allowed. Santana pretends to be affronted. Quinn apologizes, covers her mouth with a little gasp.

Brittany covers her mouth too. It's a long time before she muffles out "Can I stop checking my breath now? Please?"

Quinn smiles.

"Permission granted," she says airily.

* * *

And then she loves Glee club. She really, really loves it.

* * *

And then she's pregnant and it's Puck's and in the end everybody knows.

Quinn thinks it's the worst. She's wrong.

When Finn starts holding hands with Rachel – _that's_ when it's the worst.

* * *

She isn't there when Quinn has the baby – Rachel – she's the only one who isn't – she's the only one - and she's so angry because it hurts so much – the baby – having the baby hurts so much.

* * *

Things go back to normal – or Quinn thinks they would if she would let them.

* * *

It's a week since the start of term. They're in the bathroom again just like last year, only nobody's hiding.

_Maybe._

Rachel asks "What's it like?"

"What's what like?" Quinn shoots back in a monotone.

She glosses her lips, gazes at them in the mirror.

Rachel bites hers, one then the other.

"I don't know, I just… having a child, I guess, a part of you that's…"

She shakes her head and Quinn gets a glimpse of bashful when she reaches for a sheet of paper towel.

"What's it like?" Rachel asks again.

Quinn crumples the paper towel, zips her purse.

She's on her way to the door with "I wouldn't know."

It slams shut on "Why don't you ask your mother."

* * *

Spring.

Quinn is with Jesse – yes, _that_ Jesse.

Rachel can't believe it at first, she can't believe _her._

"I can't _believe_ you," she says – loudly – shakily – like she actually might cry.

Quinn shrugs. "Fair's fair. You pounced on my leftovers, didn't you?"

"That was different!" Rachel says.

She folds her arms over the kitten-sweater – it's the same one Quinn thinks, she's sure it is the same one, and her throat is tight when asks says "Really? Why's that then?"

"Why?" Rachel whispers, because she's fairly sure she's the one who should be asking questions.

She stares at Quinn as long as she can manage.

And then she runs away.

* * *

Why?

* * *

Two weeks ago. The Sadie Hawkins Dance.

Rachel had asked every boy she knew and some she didn't – including Finn, even though she'd broken up with him on Thursday and had no intention of getting back together.

Once that last part had become clear he'd said a hearty no.

That was okay. That was perfectly understandable, Rachel reminded herself.

The trouble was, so had everyone else – said a hearty no - _every boy she knew and some she didn't._

The posters haunted Rachel all the way to the music room.

* * *

Quinn stood up abruptly when Rachel burst in. She'd been sitting at the piano, and Rachel thought she might have been teaching herself to play.

She could swear a diminished seventh was hanging in the air.

She asked "Are you learning to play?"

Quinn shrugged.

"Chopsticks," she said.

She closed the lid quickly, folded a piece of paper into her pocket.

* * *

They spent the afternoon in there on a whim, skipped all their classes.

Rachel was predictably uptight about it, unpredictably willing to try not to be.

Quinn waved a hand lazily at her mumblings about detention.

"Say you had cramps, works every time," she said. She tipped her head to one side. "Well – for me anyway."

A roll of her eyes, half a smirk.

"I guess everyone's just so relieved to hear I'm still menstruating."

Rachel laughed then frowned. She wasn't quite sure which was appropriate.

She resisted a strange and doubtless very lame urge to pat Quinn on the knee comfortingly.

* * *

Quinn read her book – John Grisham – The Pelican Brief – she'd set herself a literary goal – she would read every book that had spawned a Julia Roberts movie by the end of the year.

(She had a feeling she'd fall short, but that was okay. Ambition – just enough.)

Rachel was all _do re mi fa_ etcetera, but every now and then they talked – about Glee club mostly – and the piano and the piece of paper in Quinn's pocket.

Quinn stubbornly refused to show it to Rachel, but eventually admitted, in a misguided attempt to shut her up, that she'd been trying to write a song.

"OH! Are you going to perform it for the group? Have you thought about percussion because I could ask – oh – well – maybe not. But do you need someone – no offence because your voice is really sweet – really good – really _great_ - but do you need someone with a bigger range? I'm just wondering. Was that a diminished seventh I heard when I came in?"

Quinn was annoyed, obviously. But she couldn't seem to help laughing.

"Rachel," she said, shaking her head, "chill out. I said I was _trying_ to write a song. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

* * *

Quinn nearly dropped the polish she was busy painting onto her nails.

She forgot the pinkie on her right hand, put the brush back in the bottle and screwed the lid tight.

"Rachel," she said, with all the faux-patience of a faux-kindergarten teacher, "you're supposed to ask a guy."

"Not necessarily! Brittany asked Santana."

"That's because she's gay," Quinn said. She snorted in a particularly ladylike way she had of snorting, added "And an idiot."

"True," Rachel conceded, "but I could be an idiot – I mean gay – I could be gay – for the night."

Quinn snorted again – a little less ladylike, perhaps. "Let's get this straight," she said, coughing over her choice of words, "You'd rather be a lesbian than miss the Sadie Hawkins Dance."

"Yes!" Rachel exclaimed.

She stood up, sat down again in a flustered heap, said miserably "I'm on the organizing committee! I can't _not go._"

Quinn almost dropped the bottle of polish again – not that it would have mattered – the lid was on – it was safe to be startled, she thought.

"You're on the organizing committee?" she asked.

Rachel must have been oblivious to the sharpness of her tone, because she smiled in sudden bliss, exclaimed again "Yes!" and "I couldn't believe Becky let me on it! It was so nice of her, even if I did have to resort to blackmail. Anyway, I chose all the music, so as you can imagine…"

"You chose all the music?" Quinn muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "Really not winning me over here."

"… it's going to be something truly special in that respect."

"Uh huh," Quinn said distractedly. "Two things: how do you know I'm not going already, and why don't you just go stag."

"Um…" Rachel hesitated, looked down at her hands in her lap, peered carefully at Quinn before averting her eyes again. "Well Santana might have mentioned it in the context of a conversation about how you're turning into a creepy loner."

She smiled nervously, glanced up, and when Quinn remained silent and stony-faced, she carried on with "In which I had no part. _Anyway._ I can't go on my own, because Principal Figgins expressly said in assembly that the young ladies of McKinley need to be emancipated, and that the only way to achieve that is for him to force them to be free, so it's not just that it's tradition to ask someone to go, it's sort of the price of admission – well…" she reached into her bag and pulled out two neat pieces of coloured card, sighed "…along with the overpriced tickets, but I already have those."

* * *

Quinn wasn't sure why she said yes. She thought perhaps it had something to do with the fumes from the nail polish – even if the music room was large and well ventilated.

Rachel hugged her and tried to bounce them around whilst sitting down.

"The best part," she said excitedly, "is that on account of my connections, I'm fairly sure I'll be able to get us onto the podium for a duet."

* * *

They didn't do the duet. Quinn may have been unreasonably fluffy over this whole thing, but she wasn't a moron.

The punch was spiked. Artie threw up on Miss Pillsbury's organic almond cake.

(Nobody minded except her.)

Brittany and Santana were actually slow-dancing at one point, but Quinn was fairly sure they'd both come with dates – proper dates – dates who were guys.

She shot them dirty looks they didn't notice, fingered the cross at her neck while Rachel poked the cupcakes around the plate looking for two with pink icing.

* * *

They kissed that night.

Not Brittany and Santana.

Rachel and Quinn.

It was soft and unexpected, preceded by _I want to hear your song,_ followed by _Okay, okay. Tomorrow. I promise,_ and it was much less gin-soaked than Quinn would later admit to herself.

A few minutes before midnight, a few shadowed meters from her front porch…

They said goodnight.

One of Rachel's sparkly star clips fell out of her hair with Quinn's hands.

She held her breath, waited till Rachel was in the car, one of her dads waving with her as they pulled out onto the road.

She bent down.

She picked up the star.

* * *

That's why.

* * *

When Rachel gets to the girls' bathroom there's no paper towel in the dispenser.

Her eye makeup is a mess.

She supposes she could just use toilet paper – she supposes she would just use toilet paper even though it's the gross brown scratchy kind and if it weren't for the fact that there's a poster for the Sadie Hawkins Dance taped to the mirror.

She tears it down – it's old news, anyway.

She dabs at her cheeks with a cool, dog-eared corner.

* * *

Quinn gets into her car, starts the engine.

She's careful to wipe her eyes before she looks in the rear-view mirror.

It's okay, she's perfect – no mess – waterproof mascara isn't really waterproof, you learn that when you spend all day sweating – tinted lashes are the only way to go.

It's okay. She's perfect.

She smiles at herself, as wide as she can.

_It's okay,_ she thinks.

She's the cheesiest girl in Ohio.

She's got teeth as white as her sneakers and _straight, straight, straight._


End file.
